


The Humming and the Heartbeats

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Induced Lust, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward’s got a <i>need</i> blossoming in his chest, but it seems to be contagious. And also, maybe he and Skye should stay away from milk and/or FitzSimmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Humming and the Heartbeats

He’s buzzing.  His head is buzzing, swimming, and when did it get so hot?  He can feel sweat beading on his skin, feel his lungs expanding and compressing in his chest and he tries to slow down his heartbeat.  And everything is humming.  Absolutely everything.  The known world and all of its matter is in a chorus, singing a tune that’s wearing his senses dull.

He’s being lulled by the sound of his own heartbeat.  By the heat.  So warm.  He feels sticky, too.  Warm and sticky and he should take his shirt off, that would help.  He peels the white fabric off his skin, lifts it over his head, uses it to mop his brow.  He’s thirsty.  He’s going to die if he doesn’t drink something.

The milk.  The milk could help.  He picks it up off the counter and finishes it, and the humming grows into a dull roar.  His heart keeps tempo.

And then.  He catches the sound of footsteps but more than that, the smell of shampoo.  He’s never been able to smell shampoo from across a room but now he can and it’s stronger than the humming. 

 

 

“Ward?” Skye asks, and the humming swells in union with her voice, praising her, welcoming her.  He grips the countertop.  “Ward,” she repeats.  “Are you okay?  Where’s your shirt?”

She puts her hand on his arm and he moans.  “Skye,” he whispers, and the word, the sound of her name feels so thick and heavy and absolute.  “I don’t-” he looks at the glass.  Something’s not right.  This hadn’t been-He’s not supposed to be feeling like this. 

“Grant,” she says, softer, moves so that she and the smell of her shampoo are right in front of him.  She is glowing.  She is the only focus in a room that has blurred, the only thing he can hear in a room that sings.  It’s so hot.  It’s so hot and he has to, he has to-

He leans forward and kisses her. Puts his hands in her hair. Whines in the back of his throat.  His heart pounds and he’s, he’s-God, he’s so fucking horny.

She’d been caught off guard, before, but that was before he’d sucked on her lower lip.  Before his tongue had pressed against her teeth and-Chemicals.  Chemicals in the milk?  There was something in his mouth, he has to-She pulls back, then, presses her hands flat against his chest.

Her pupils are blown.  Her lips are red and the glassy look in her eyes, the one he knows he’s got, too, it means she’s with him, now.  She can hear it.  She can feel it, like he does.

 

 

It’s need.  That’s what it is.

And of course it would be Skye.  Of course.  That’s what the humming had been telling him.  He’d been waiting for her, and she smells so sweet.

“Babe,” she says, pressing her lips against his neck.  He’s only ‘babe’ when they’re fucking and she must want to fuck him, as badly as he wants to fuck her.

Well.  He always wants to fuck her.  But right now he needs to.  Absolutely needs to.

“Baby, please,” she repeats.  Like they’re in bed, and not standing in the kitchen.

Bed.  Bed.  They need to go to his bunk.

“Skye,” he says, or tries to, before her hand finds its way to the front of his jeans. 

 

 

They’re not going to make it to the bedroom.

 

 

“Please,” she whimpers.  He has to lay her down, at least.  He should.  He bucks against her hand.  She’s squirming.  He thinks she might be feeling it worse than he is, she’s so small and he’d kissed her so much and her tongue, her tongue and her hands, reaching for his zipper.  “I need you.”

He finds some semblance of self control in this, over the noise, and grabs her ass.  “Couch,” he murmurs.  She wraps her legs around his waist, arms around his neck.  He’s not unused to carrying her like this.

And thank God.  Because when she grinds her hips against him, he almost drops her.  “Wait,” he pleads.  A few steps.  And then.

He tries to set her down gently, but she pulls him on top of her, so that his knee has to drop between her legs to stop himself from falling on top of her.  Though.  That might be what she wants.

She squirms again, brushing against his leg, and he whines at the same time she does.

“Grant,” she begs.  “Baby, please.”

“Clothes?” he asks, unsure of how he can make words.  She’s so warm, her thighs are burning through her jeans and he’s sure she’s wet, he’s as sure of it as he is of his own arousal, and he is very, very sure of that.  He bites at the skin around her neck, not hard, nothing more than the grazing of his teeth, but it sends her into fits of frenzied shivers, and he feels her writhe as he pulls down her jeans.

 

 

They stick to her skin, like his shirt stuck to his.  He tugs.  Her body is alight, a vessel of warmth, a buzzing to drown out all the other noise.  She grinds against the couch cushions, looking for friction, warmth, anything, and he can help.

He has to help.  “Skye,” he whispers, and when did he fall to his knees?  It must’ve been when he was taking off her jeans.  He thinks he threw those somewhere.  He doesn’t know where.  He doesn’t care.  She’s wet and she needs him.  She needs him she needs him and he doesn’t bother trying to pull her underwear down, not when the situation is so absolutely urgent.

He pushes the fabric aside and licks a stripe up her slit.  She cries out, and he feels it go straight through him.  He has to.  He has to.  He thinks, faintly, that he is never this direct about it, that he will always take the time to kiss her thighs and her stomach but there’s no time, none at all, not for that.  And she tastes so sweet.

She’s pulling at his hair, and he presses his lips to her clit and sucks and sucks and she’s bucking and moaning and he should, he should-God, he needs to be inside her.  But.  But she tastes like-But.  This is so difficult.  It’s boiling.  It’s so hard to think.  He flits his tongue over her clit and then, and then he puts his tongue inside her and she comes for him, quicker than he’s ever made her come before, hard enough that her body bows.

 

 

He pulls back and wipes his mouth against the back of his hand.  She eyes him from the couch, burning, burning, and she pulls his hair to plead with him.  “Grant, please,” she whispers.

“More?” he asks.  Or begs.  He wants more.  He needs more.

“Please, please,” she whines, as he leans over her again.  She rubs her knee against the fabric of his jeans.

“Skye,” he mutters, kissing her neck, finding the button and the zippers and his underwear, ridding himself of them, letting her grab his ass hard enough to leave marks.  He needs this.  He needs her and he’s probably going to die if he doesn’t fuck her right now.

Her underwear.  Her underwear, now twisted, pushed and pulled and stretched.  She notices that his gaze keeps flitting downward, and she’s grabbing and pawing at her own underwear like she hates it, and maybe she does.  It’s keeping them apart and she whines in frustration.  So he does what any good boyfriend would do: he tears them at one side and pulls them off her, so that he can pull her to him and slip inside her and oh, fucking hell, fucking fuck fuck-

 

 

“Grant,” she whines, digging her fingers into his lower back.  “Harder.”

He can do harder.  He can do that.  He grabs her hips and rocks into her, and she’s pushing back, pushing him onto the floor so she can ride him out.  It’s incredible.  She’s incredible.  She’s always so strong and beautiful and she feels so good, he could just shut his eyes and let her go, let her use him.  

Then she twists her hips, and it feels like someone flicked a switch.  He’s alight.  He’s burning.  He grabs her, sits up, lifts her again like it’s second nature.  He’s less gentle about laying her down on her back, this time.  He’s not always this dominant.  This aggressively on top.

She makes some kind of noise that sounds pleading and content and it’s just.  It’s her.  It’s her.  God, she’s perfect.  She’s so loud.  So loud, leading the humming in a song.  Her song.  He’d thought it was just the humming but it wasn’t.  It’s her, and him, it’s them and they’re making so much noise, too much noise, but when he hooks her leg over his shoulder, he finds it so hard to care about anything other than making her scream.

 

 

The lights seem brighter.  Impossibly bright.  Like the whole room has gone white.  And the humming and the buzzing and the panting and oh, fuck, how long have they even been doing this for?  Where is everyone?

At this point, he’s not even sure anyone exists outside of Skye and her warmth and her beautiful little noises.  He doesn’t care if they do.  He doesn’t he doesn’t. He can only do this, and listen to the humming and the heartbeats.

How many times has Skye come?  Her eyes are half-lidded and she rolls her hips in time with his thrusts.  He feels like she’s been coming a lot.  She likes to bite his shoulder, when she goes, and at this point he’s got overlapping marks.

And she keeps twitching around him, which just makes him go harder, which just makes her come again.

How is he still going, though?  Her breaths are getting quicker, in a way that would indicate something’s not right but he’s feeling it too and holy fucking fuck, the humming is roaring in his ears and she’s crying his name and he’s coming.  He’s coming and the world goes blurry, and Skye digs her teeth into him so hard she draws blood.  Oh fuck, fuck, oh-

 

 

Oh, fuck.  He stares at Skye.  She stares at him.  Her hair is a mess and he’s still inside her and-

“What the fuck was that?” she asks.  “What just happened?”

“I think we had sex,” he told her.  “But turned up to one thousand.”

Skye laughs.  At his comment, at the situation, he’s not sure which.  She shakes her head, brushes sweat-slicked strands of hair out of her face.

“That was weird,” she decides, partially to him, and partially to herself.  And he’s glad he does.  Because he feels a little less gross when she laughs. 

“Can I pull out?” he asks.

 

 

She gives him that face.  The one that asks if he’s serious. “Please,” she says.

He does, carefully, and he should clean up but they’re also in the common area and anyone could walk in on them.  He’s surprised someone hasn’t already.  Unless someone already did.  Ward wouldn’t have been capable of noticing.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Ward says, and that’s the simplest way he can think of putting it.

“Well you gave it to me,” Skye says.  “So-”

“I think I mentioned wanting something for energy,” Ward says.  He should really find his clothes.  “I told FitzSimmons I wanted a supplement.  Like, this morning?”

Skye whacks him on the arm.  “Seriously?” she demands.  “No wonder. They drugged you.  Us.”

“Not on purpose!” Ward says.  “I highly doubt that this was the anticipated result.”

She softens, just enough for him to know she’s not going to go down to the lab and raise hell.  “Still.  They shouldn’t just-” Skye stops, as her hands notice her underwear.  “What happened to my underwear?”

“I ripped them,” Ward says.  “Sorry.”

“Well FitzSimmons owes me a new pair of underwear,” she says.  “And let’s not drink milk ever again, okay?”

“And,” Ward says, frowning.  “I still don’t have anything for energy.”

“Shut up,” Skye says, but she’s just teasing.  “God.  Next time they’re going to drug you and that shit won’t wear off.  You’ll just have sex with me until you die.”

“What a way to go,” he says.  She kicks out at him, and he grabs her by the ankle.  “At least we’d enjoy it,” he says.

“Find my pants or you’re going to die without the sex,” Skye tells him.

He laughs, and this is still weird, this is still so weird, but he thinks they’re at that stage where they refuse to talk about it, because it’s just too fucking much.  And he can wait until she’s ready.  It’s not like they don’t have sex already, but still.  This should be talked about.

 

 

“Okay,” says someone behind them. Probably the worst someone imaginable. Melinda May is here, they're naked, and they are so, so dead.  “Can one of you tell me why Coulson refuses to come out of his office?”

“Um,” Skye says, because Ward has died, he’s sure of it.  And not even from having sex.

“Um,” Ward repeats.

“Well,” Skye says.  “I can explain.”


End file.
